What’s Behind David Frum’s Attack on Dinesh d’Souza and Mr. Newt? (Hatred perhaps?)

Newt Gingrich stirred up a big of a controversy Friday night just by commenting on an article in Forbes Magazine by Dinesh D’Souza. The premise of the article is many of Obama’s positions were influenced by his dad.

What then is Obama’s dream? We don’t have to speculate because the President tells us himself in his autobiography, Dreams from My Father. According to Obama, his dream is his father’s dream. Notice that his title is not Dreams of My Father but rather Dreams from My Father. Obama isn’t writing about his father’s dreams; he is writing about the dreams he received from his father.

Whether you agree with it or not this is not a terribly, outlandish position, many of us can say that we were influenced by our father’s dreams. I certainly carried many of my father’s dreams into the next generation. Gingrich felt the D’Souza article was incredibly insightful.

Citing a recent Forbes article by Dinesh D’Souza, former House speaker Newt Gingrich tells National Review Online that President Obama may follow a “Kenyan, anti-colonial” worldview.

Gingrich says that D’Souza has made a “stunning insight” into Obama’s behavior — the “most profound insight I have read in the last six years about Barack Obama.”

“What if [Obama] is so outside our comprehension, that only if you understand Kenyan, anti-colonial behavior, can you begin to piece together [his actions]?” Gingrich asks. “That is the most accurate, predictive model for his behavior.”

It's hard to put too much stock in 'Dreams'. Any article about 0bama and 'Pop' should contain 0bama's poem (referenced here):

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken 
In, sprinkled with ashes 
Pop switches channels, takes another 
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks 
What to do with me, a green young man 
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since 
Things have been easy for me;
  I stare hard at his face, a stare 
That deflects off his brow;  
I’m sure he’s unaware of his 
Dark, watery eyes, that 
Glance in different directions, 
And his slow, unwelcome twitches, 
Fail to pass. I listen, nod, 
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
  Beige T-shirt, yelling, 
Yelling in his ears, that hang 
With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies… 
But I don’t care anymore, cause 
He took too damn long, and from 
Under my seat, I pull out the
 Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,  
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face 
To mine, as he grows small, 
A spot in my brain, something 
That may be squeezed out, like a  
Watermelon seed between 
Two fingers. 
Pop takes another shot, neat, 
Points out the same amber 
Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and 
Makes me smell his smell, coming 
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem 
He wrote before his mother died, 
Stands, shouts, and asks 
For a hug, as I shrink, my  
Arms barely reaching around 
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ’cause
 I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses 
And know he’s laughing too.

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